


No Questions Here

by Alexicon



Series: marvel works [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 02:14:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6404548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexicon/pseuds/Alexicon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve loves trivia. <em>Really</em> loves it. Maybe he'll find someone who loves it as much as he does. (Spoiler: He will.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Questions Here

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, good, I finished a WIP! Sweet.

“You know, there are plenty of good wings places around,” Steve points out. “I don’t see why we have to go to this specific one.”

“We can watch my hockey game and your baseball game here at the same time, their wings are great, and I love the mozzarella sticks,” Sam lists off. “Also, Natasha says there’s trivia games on all the time, which I know you love.”

Steve perks up. “Trivia games? That sounds fun.”

“Yeah, yeah, just don’t get into a fight this time, will you?”

Steve’s only a little disappointed to realize he’s not actually playing against anyone the first game. Instead, it seems to be based on points, which takes away a lot of the fun. According to Sam, however, this is a good thing.

The last time Sam and Steve went to a trivia night, Steve was thrown out because he found out that one of the other players had blackmailed the proctor into giving him all of the answers. Steve was outraged, Sam was exasperated, and Natasha laughed because it was a waste of good blackmail. (She wouldn’t tell anyone what the blackmail had been, not that they had asked. Steve isn’t even sure he wants to know how Natasha had found out.)

Steve’s only half-assing the answers at first, glancing at the tablet he’d been given during commercial breaks of his baseball game.

“Hey,” Sam nudges Steve. “Caps are winning, check it out. You see anything good?”

Steve groans. “Not the Mets today, that’s for sure. Uh, the honey barbecue looks pretty good, I think I’ll have that.”

“Yeah, all right. They’re tasty, I think you’ll like ‘em.”

Steve gives Sam a weird look. “Have you tried every flavor they have?”

“Unless they’ve added some new ones,” Sam says, and surveys the menu. “Yeah, I’ve tried ‘em all. Some of them just about set my mouth on fire, but they were still tasty.”

“Right,” Steve sighs. He gets up. “Well, I’m going to the restroom. If the waiter comes by, get me as many boneless honey barbecue wings as you can get in one order and a Coke, please.”

“Sure thing, Steve,” Sam replies, grinning at him.

When Steve comes back, Sam glances up at him with raised eyebrows.

“Well, that was quick,” he says. “I guess not having to throw up in a public bathroom shortens the trip a little, huh? Good thing we’re not drinking today.”

“I told you last time, I was sick,” says Steve, exasperated. “I can hold my liquor.”

“You keep on telling that story, Steve, I’m sure I’ll believe you someday,” Sam teases. Steve huffs and looks toward the tablet, and then scrambles to draw it closer.

“What, do you know this one really well or something?” asks Sam.

“No, it’s not a question, there’s a break,” Steve explains, distracted. “Another player’s just joined is all.”

“Ohhh boy,” Sam mutters, which is a pretty fair response to anything with ‘Steve’ and ‘competition’ anywhere in the same vicinity.

A few minutes later of intense screen-tapping, Steve explodes. “How does Winter know so damn much about all these obscure questions? Who the hell in their right minds actually _knows_ who was in the 1953 version of _Invaders from Mars_?”

“I’m guessing this Winter guy does,” Sam says, which Steve ignores in favor of more ranting.

“This has got to be some kind of trick. Is it possible to hack these devices?” Sam stares at him with mild concern on his face.

“I think you might wanna take a break now, Steve,” Sam advises. “You’re getting really stressed about this.”

“I can’t take a break now, there’s only two more -- oh, hang on, I know...” Steve presses at one of the options and grins at the screen as the other answers gradually disappear. “Oh, _yes_. I knew I took Art History for a reason.”

“That reason was to get your major, Steve,” Sam reminds him patiently.

“Yeah, sure, but this is more important right now.”

Sam gapes at him, then rolls his eyes and shakes his head exaggeratedly. “I regret bringing you here.”

“I don’t,” Steve replies, and chooses an answer jubilantly. “Ha! Take that, Winter.”

“Some day, I’m gonna write a tell-all novel about being friends with you, and it’s going to be a bestseller, and people are going to give me awards and praise me for being such a good friend.”

“Aren’t psychiatrists not supposed to talk about stuff like that?” Steve asks, only paying a little bit of attention as he waits for the final scores.

“Psychologist,” Sam corrects automatically. “And that’s only with patients. You, thanks be to God Almighty, are not my patient. Therefore, it is perfectly legal to write a book on your personal brand of insanity.”

“Yes!” Steve hisses, fist-pumping excitedly. He turns a grin onto Sam. “Sam, I won!”

“Yeah, I guessed that,” Sam says. “You know the food came, right?”

Steve looks around. “Oh, yeah,” he says vaguely, and promptly digs in. Sam shakes his head incredulously and then joins him.

The next game starts up sooner than Steve would prefer, while he’s still shoveling buffalo wings into his mouth.

“Goddammit,” he tries to say. It comes out sounding more like, “Gffdmmuh,” but Sam, judging by his rolled eyes, understands the meaning nevertheless.

“I can get the first question, I ordered one of the dry rubs,” Sam soothes. “What is the velocity of a European swallow? No, I’m just kidding. How many seasons did Joe DiMaggio play?”

“Um... Thirteen.”

“Nice,” Sam comments, pleased. “Oh, hey, your friend here apparently knew that one too. You both have a thousand points.”

Steve makes a wordless sound of frustration and almost puts his head down on the table before he remembers that there’s still food there.

“All right, give it here,” Steve orders, holding his hand out. Sam passes it to him, but not without a warning.

“Steve, I’m saying this right now, if we get kicked out of this place because of your competitiveness problem, I’m never going to forgive you.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic, Sam, we’re not going to get kicked out.”

They are, miraculously, not thrown out. Fortunately, Steve goes intense and quiet rather than his typical bar default of loud, argumentative, and cruising for the next person to defend. (Generally, Steve doesn’t go to bars unless he’s in the mood for a fight. There’s usually some asshole or other who obliges him by being particularly gross that day.)

“Oh, God,” a voice says from above them. Sam looks up immediately, but Steve takes a moment to select his answer before glancing at the speaker. He’s a stoutly built, ginger-haired man with a mustache straight out of an old western, and he’s smirking right at Steve for no discernible reason.

“Can I help you?” Steve says, a little more belligerently than is polite.

“I never thought I’d meet anyone as into bar games as my friend Bucky, but it seems I’ve met his match,” the man replies.

“I’m sure we’d be great friends,” says Steve dryly.

“So am I,” the man responds, somewhat more sincerely than Steve.

“Hi, I’m Sam Wilson,” Sam interrupts, glancing between Steve and the man and giving a friendly grin. “This guy here’s Steve Rogers, my best friend.”

“Timothy Dugan. Everyone calls me Dum Dum, though.”

“Like the bullets or like the lollipops?” Sam asks. Dum Dum laughs.

“Either’s good,” he says. “Anyway, what I was trying to do was invite you two to sit at our table. I have a feeling the boys’ll like you.”

Sam and Steve exchange looks and shrug at each other.

“Let us pay for this food and then we’ll join you,” Steve requests, and Dum Dum smiles widely.

“Got it,” says Dum Dum. “We’re just over there.”

The table he indicates has to be one of the biggest in the place, because there are already seven men sitting there. It does seem to have a few extra seats, somehow; Steve wonders if Dum Dum texted someone to pull up more chairs or if they had been there the whole time.

They pay fairly quickly, which is surprising because the place is pretty full. Steve answers questions on the tablet almost absently on the way over to Dugan’s table as Sam gently steers him in the right direction so he doesn’t knock into anything or anyone.

There are a few things Steve notices as he glances up at Dum Dum’s friends. Firstly, they’re all ridiculously attractive. It’s a little unsettling; Steve wonders if there was a beauty contest where the prize was that you get to join this group. (Looking at Sam, Steve decides smugly that they’re both good-looking enough to be safe if beauty actually is a requirement for their group.) Secondly, they’ve all got military builds and an unconscious awareness of their surroundings, but their hairstyles and facial hair indicate that either they’ve all been home for a while or they’re some sort of special ops team. Which, yeah, Steve’s no stranger to that type, and Sam’s always said that he met the most interesting people by dropping out of the sky to rescue them as a paratrooper.

“Steve, Sam, make yourselves at home,” Dum Dum says, and nudges the man next to him. “Bucky, budge up, all the chairs are next to you.”

“Gimme a minute,” the guy says. “You happen to know what the chemical formula of sulfuric acid is? I can’t remember.”

“It’s number B,” answers Steve. “I mean, letter B. It’s B.”

The man answers, then looks up from his tablet and grins. “Hey, thanks. How’d you know which -- ” and then he freezes, eyes zeroing in on the matching tablet in Steve’s hands.

(“Oh, no,” Sam says under his breath. “Oh, no no no.”

“Just go with it, man,” Dum Dum says, clapping his hand to Sam’s shoulder. “It was obviously meant to be.”

“Yeah, but meant to be _what_ , I have no idea,” Sam mutters.)

“ _You_ ,” says Bucky.

“You’re Winter,” says Steve.

“You’re _Steve_ ,” Bucky accuses. “What, you couldn’t come up with a better name?”

“It’s already the best,” Steve replies, shrugging. “What about Winter? What’s that all about?”

“It’s a nickname,” Bucky says defensively.

Steve raises an eloquent eyebrow at that and then squeezes himself into the seat right next to Bucky. Sam’s already sitting in the chair two down from Steve and Bucky and is actively ignoring them in favor of a conversation with some of the others.

“No, you are not cheating off of me, don’t even think about it, mister,” Bucky orders, sliding his tablet away from Steve.

“I wasn’t going to cheat,” he replies. “You know, maybe it’s you who’s going to cheat off me. I am beating you, last time I checked.”

“No -- yes, you are, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means that I’m winning, actually,” Steve reminds Bucky helpfully. Bucky narrows his eyes at Steve.

“We shall see,” he says ominously.

Bucky wins that round. He only gloats a little, which is kind of him, but he still smirks at Steve and does a little dance.

“You may have won the battle, but I’m gonna win the war,” Steve warns, and focuses on the game.

Sam glances over occasionally to make sure that Steve hasn’t punched his new trivia buddy yet and sees two grown-ass men bent over their tablets and poking at each other with huge grins whenever one of them beats the other to an answer.

“Well, they seem to be getting along just fine,” he says, relieved. There’s a loud bang right after he says this, and he whips his head back around to glare at a sheepish but giggly Steve and Bucky, who are picking up the scattered insides of the wet wipes containers that they dropped onto the floor. Because Sam and the rest are true friends, they all sit back and laugh at the two.

“Goddamnit,” Steve says at the end of the round, throwing the tablet down with probably more force than the waiter hovering at the other end of the table would prefer. “You’re _good_.”

“That I am,” replies Bucky, shit-eating smile plastered across his face.

“How did you know that one about the rare dog breeds?”

Bucky shrugs. “Guess I’m just a genius.”

“Or you like dogs, maybe,” Steve chuckles. “That was real fun, Mr. Winter.”

“Same to you, Mr. Steve,” Bucky replies, and holds out his hand for a firm shake which Steve accepts sharply.

Steve fiddles with his straw for a second, then turns to face Bucky head-on. “Would you like to do this again sometime?”

Bucky’s delighted smile is slow, but it’s so intensely sweet that Steve has to catch his breath.

“Yeah, that sounds great,” he says.

“It’s a date,” says Steve, smiling hopefully, and he watches to see Bucky’s reaction to the word from the corner of his eye. Bucky’s grin only increases, and Steve sighs in relief.

Steve’s smile still hasn’t disappeared an hour later, when he and Sam finally leave.

(“It’s like a match made in hell,” Sam mutters.

“Shut up,” Steve replies happily, ignoring Sam’s heartfelt groan as he searches for the trivia app on his phone that Bucky had recommended. This afternoon ended a lot different from his last trivia night.

Steve’s okay with that.)

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lexiconallie.tumblr.com)!


End file.
